Don't Judge a Book

Before you begin reading, I think it’s only fair to warn you that I’m going to be gushing about our new American Idol, Kris Allen. If you’ve grown tired of reading what seems like endless articles dissecting the season, I’ll let you know now that I won’t attempt to repeat what other “real” media are going on about. If you still think the whole topic is completely banal, I won’t be offended if you end your reading now…

OK, for those who have chosen to go down my path of crazy, I totally heart Kris Allen! I just read another article about him in Entertainment Weekly and while some may think he’s blah, I think he’s amazing. In the article, he comments on the media making the finale a culture war between the “edgy, androgynous Lambert” and Kris, the “wholesome, Christian Allen.” To this brouhaha he said, “It’s frustrating that the world is still like that. Like, get over it. Adam and I are great, great friends. Our relationship is, hopefully, an inspiration to people: No matter who you are, you can get along with anyone.”

Could Kris Allen’s brand of openness and acceptance be the formula for peace in the Middle East? No, probably not. but it certainly makes me think of times in my life when someone who has presented themselves in an outer package that I might not understand has surprised and delighted me. I was in high school in the 80’s and when I first started seeing girls and boys wearing thick eye liner, black nail polish, chains and studs and spiky hair, I have to admit that I met the trend with a mix of suspicion and fear. Were these kids subversive? Would they be kids that would be nice to me in biology class if I was assigned to them as a lab partner? Does that nose piercing hurt? Are they really all depressed and do they really spend hours listening to Morrissey on repeat?

I befriended a few of the “mods” through various classes throughout my time in high school and they turned out to be some of the coolest people at my school. I graduated thinking that these would be the photographers, costume designers, fine artists, wardrobe stylists and style arbiters of tomorrow and was ultimately envious that I might never be as cool. I hope my kids can take a cue from “Our Kris” and hopefully from their mom and live their life never judging a book by its cover. Who knew there would be so many teachable moments from one season of American Idol?

Travel Perks and 30 Rock

Traveling for business can be torture. Not only do I miss my kids, I get chronic sinus infections, some airlines don’t have toilet seat covers (what!?) and I always seem to get stuck next to people that insist on speaking to me throughout the entire flight. The one bright, shiny perk to flying is that Continental Airlines plays NBC re-runs and I get to see 30 Rock episodes! If you haven’t seen this show, you must. Alec Baldwin is amazing. Many have written him off as a mean dad for the personal answering machine messages that were leaked to the press. I’m not here to change your mind, but I have a personal experience that may give you pause to re-think 30 Rock.

I earned my undergraduate degree at Pepperdine University. For anyone that knows anything about the school you can imagine what the experience is like. Imagine going to a Church of Christ School where students are so wealthy, their parents buy their children housing in the Malibu Colony, where your neighbors are Cher, Cindy Crawford, Charlie Sheen and Mel Gibson and where your classes are held minutes away from some of the most beautiful coastal land in the world.

I paid my way through Pepperdine by waitressing in Malibu! Imagine the ultimate financial aid poster child delivering pizza to Sly Stallone's house, pouring coffee for Ed Harris and Sean Penn and picking up plates of food scraps from Mel Gibson and Linda Hamilton (when she originated the buff arms that Madonna later copied). One of my jobs had me waitressing at a restaurant called Anthony's. One night, Alec Baldwin came in with a business associate and ordered chicken parmigiana with no cheese. That wasn't a punchline. He explained that he wanted broiled eggplant, covered in sauce with no cheese, he was removing dairy from his diet.

I had definitely had stranger requests during my stint as a waitress so I brought the order back to the kitchen and a few minutes later I brought the baked eggplant with marinara to his table. A minute later, Alec called me back to the table and politely told me that the chef must have put ricotta in the marinara. When I brought the plate back in the kitchen, the chef wet berserk. He started pounding on the metal counter using every expletive he knew. Halfway through the tirade, I started praying that the music was loud enough to drown out the shouting when Alec came into the kitchen. He calmly told the chef that it wasn't my fault and that he needed to stop yelling at me.

Later that night, all of the staff had gone home and I was left to close the restaurant. It was a quiet night on the residential strip of PCH and I rushed to roll in the café tables from the patio. As I rolled in the last one, I saw car headlights creeping up behind me and I feared the worst; robbers coming to steal cash! I went to grab the broom thinking if I was gonna go down, I'd go down swinging. To my relief and surprise it was Alec Baldwin offering to help me put the rest of the patio furniture away and mildly castigating me for being alone in the restaurant so late. After I locked the front door, he told me to hurry off to my car (parked across the busy highway) and watched as I got in, fastened my seatbelt and made the Uturn to head home. He waved goodbye and that was the last time I saw him in the city of Bu.

When I've told this story to people in the past, I've actually been told it's disappointing that there's no seedy ending. I tell those people to get their minds out of the gutter because people still can and will surprise you with kindness in unexpected ways and want nothing in return. That was more than fifteen years ago and it’s something I will never forget.

So, stop judging and watch 30 Rock! The show is amazing

N. Koreans Sentence Ling and Lee to 12 Years in Labor Camp

I am sitting in Phoenix Airport trying not to start balling. CNN just reported that Laura Ling and Euna Lee have been sentenced to 12 years in a North Korean labor camp for the "hostile act" of crossing over the Chinese border into North Korea. Was I being too optimistic thinking that this would all end well? Did my glass half-full side delude me into thinking that the superhero trio of Al Gore, Hillary Clinton and some kick ass special envoy like Richard Holbrook would swoop in and use super diplomacy to get them freed?

What would you do if your child or someone you loved was sentenced to 12 years in a labor camp thousands of miles away? How could you bear to open your eyes, breath in air or process thoughts knowing that you’ve exercised every conceivable option to then be handed the worst possible news? I am still hopeful something can be done. My prayers go out to both of their families.

Free Laura Ling and Euna Lee!

A couple of nights ago while channel surfing I caught an episode of Larry King Live featuring Lisa Ling and her family pleading with the North Korean government to free her sister, Laura Ling and another reporter, Euna Lee, that have been jailed for illegal entry. Lisa Ling was incredibly poised as she talked about how the two journalists have been jailed for more than three months and how they have had to keep the nightmare under wraps so as not to incite the North Koreans.

What was beyond heartbreaking was seeing Lisa and Laura Ling’s parents pleading for the safe return of their daughter. I was balling thinking how impotent they must feel and how horrific it must be to know that their daughter is behind bars and might now be a pawn in what must feel like a battle of wills between two countries. With the recent nuclear missile tests, our former president naming them as part of the Axis of Evil and our current Secretary of State Hillary Clinton’s recent hard line speech about the regime, the fact that the Ling’s were able to keep it together on national television is unfathomable. Imaging me in their position escalated my tears to sobs.

This morning I read a news report that Al Gore may be going to North Korea to try to negotiate for the release of the two reporters. At the time of Laura Ling’s arrest, she was working on a story for Current TV, a network that he co-founded and that he now sits as Chairman of the board of Content. Let the GOP say what they want about Al Gore. In my book, he is a true humanitarian and has done amazing things since he left office.

Let’s hope that between the State Department, Al Gore, President Obama and Hillary Clinton, these journalists are released soon. After all, these two women are not merely journalists, Laura and Euna are also daughters, mothers, wives and sisters just waiting to be released into the arms of their families.

Kindergarten Disobedience

A few months ago my daughter Natalie did the unthinkable. She was having a bad day at school and refused to do her schoolwork (I mean how hard is it to color or glue pieces of paper together?) and after recess, she refused to come into the classroom. After coaxing and pleading, her teacher finally had to ask the principal to come down and talk to her and instead of complying, she stood there as if she didn’t hear him! OH NO SHE DIDN’T! I thought my head was going to explode!

I had nothing in my box of coping skills to deal with this. As a child, especially at the age of 6, it never occurred to me to question, defy or test the boundaries with authority figures. Me and my three brothers were stepford children in that respect. Maybe it was because we are from an immigrant family and are loathe to rock the boat. Maybe having strict parents molded us early on to have a healthy respect for anyone that was older or taller than us.

I was inconsolable. My husband said it was no big deal and that she was just trying to get attention. I had visions of my daughter becoming one of those women behind bars that ends up on an MSNBC documentary style special talking about how her perfectionist, Type A mom damaged her to the point of becoming a career criminal. I couldn’t breath. Visions of future bad behavior swirled through my mind like a carousel running at 100 mph.

When she came home, I asked her why she did what she did. She looked down and said, “I don’t know.” My lip quivered as I explained to her why I was so disappointed in her and I found myself on the verge of tears while simultaneously feeling the urge to spank her little butt. She just stared at me blankly, displaying no sign of understanding that what she did was wrong or that she was sorry. After staring each other down for a few minutes, she finally broke eye contact and asked if she could have some chips for a snack - - OH NO SHE DIDN’T!

That night I told my husband that I just did not understand her. Why was she rebelling at such a young age? Why was she giving her teacher a hard time? Why was she questioning authority? Paul just smirked and said, “She’s just a kid. That’s what kids do.”

No More Moose Poop Candy

I am so desperately guilty for being away in Las Vegas for three days for work that I actually bought the twins Wynn stuffed animals from the hotel gift shop last night. That’s right, I bought them $13 tchotchke that are probably produced with all kinds of allergy inducing stuff inside because nothing says love more than casino logoed stuffed animals.

While I’ve tried very hard the last few months to stop buying guilt gifts, I can’t seem to break my compulsive need to make my kids know undoubtedly that they are always on my mind, no matter where I am. It’s gotten so bad that on one trip when I was pressed for time, I actually saved food from my Southwest Airlines snack box and convinced them that cheese & crackers, a box of raisins, Lorna Doone cookies and a Slim Jim were thoughtful “presents.” I felt no pain when I did it but upon reflection it demonstrates a sickness that I must remedy and soon.

Being a working mom and Catholic is the perfect storm of mommy guilt. As a Catholic, the feeling of guilt is as normal as breathing in air. As a working mom, you can tell yourself every minute of every day that you can and are doing what is best for the family, but the first time you miss a spring concert or a “Bring Someone You Love” dance for your kindergartener, you may as well stab yourself in the heart with the nearest letter opener.

My children have become so used to me bringing them things, they are rummaging through my bags before they have even said hello. This madness must end. I remain determined to break this cycle! No more moose poop candy from Minneapolis, corn-shaped bubble gum from Omaha, pencil sharpeners shaped like the Golden Gate Bridge from San Francisco or spiral straw and cup contraptions from various airports across the U.S. It will be interesting to see if on my next trip to Phoenix I can resist buying them the cactus shaped gummy candy I brought back last time.

Thanks to the video game Rock Band, my son came home from his cousin’s house and told me that his favorite song was In Bloom by Nirvana. Trying to sound cool I said that Nivana’s Nevermind was one of my favorite albums. He looked at me and said, “What’s an album?” Nothing makes you feel older than realizing that a noun that you grew up with has left the vernacular.

My IPod and IMac are so old now that I cannot download any more music (pathetic, I know). So, I called up my brother (AKA my son’s fairy godfather of call things cool) and told him about the exchange and asked if he had the album at this house. Two days later, an Amazon.com package arrived with the Nevermind CD as well as Lady Gaga’s latest (love my bro!).

After hearing this album (old habits are hard to break) playing for what seems like every minute of everyday, my son approached me while I was washing dishes and said, “Dad told me that the guy that sings In Bloom killed himself by shooting himself in the head.” (I know what you’re thinking, what a charming detail to share with an 8-year old?) Nearly dropping a sudsy plate, I turned to him and said, “Yes, he died and a lot of people that liked his music were really sad.” He asked, “Why did he kill himself?” Searching for something deep to say, I realized that if I told him what I knew, it would lead to more questions I couldn’t answer (drugs, depression, crazy wife, etc). I just looked down and said, “I think he was just really sad.”

Going from Jonas Brothers to Nirvana in the span of a week is mind blowing to me. Not that I was ever a big fan of those puppy eyed, chastity ring wearing goofballs, but I’d much rather deal with questions about how Nick Jonas broke up with Miley Cyrus than deal with the mind field of Curt Cobain’s suicide any day.